


The Zzzz Zenith

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Misses [26]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 02:04:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20734457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: This was going to be S, but then the Scone happened. And actually I think this is a perfect way to end...





	The Zzzz Zenith

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be S, but then the Scone happened. And actually I think this is a perfect way to end...

It was no small undertaking getting Strike up several flights of stairs.

It was at least a mercy, Robin thought, that thanks to the stairs going anti-clockwise up through the building and the fact that it was his right wrist he had broken, Strike’s available left hand was at the bannister. It did mean, however, that she couldn’t really help him, unwilling to grab at his painful right arm. She was just going to have to trust that he didn’t fall.

She was aware of his discomfort that she was present to witness his struggle as he pulled himself from step to step. His wrenched right knee didn’t want to take too much weight, and so he lurched each time that leg had to lead, leaning heavily on the bannister and pulling with his good arm, unable to use the bad one as a counterbalance. He was pale and out of breath by the first landing.

“Rest a bit,” Robin said gently. Strike scowled.

“I’m not mollycoddling you,” she added before he could object. “You’re injured, Cormoran. You’re probably stiff all over from that fall, it was hours ago. Hours that you’ve mostly spent sat on terrible hospital chairs. I’m pretty stiff, and I’m not—”

“—crippled?” he said angrily.

“—injured.” Robin corrected, glaring at him. “Don’t put words in my mouth I wasn’t even thinking.”

He backed down, dropping his gaze. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just annoyed with myself. One stupid wrong step and this is the mess I’m in.”

“I know,” Robin said stoutly. “But we’ll manage. Now come on, keep going. The sooner we can get you upstairs, the sooner you can be settled with a huge mug of tea and an ashtray.”

Strike chuckled. “You know me so well,” he said. Buoyed by her confident insistence that he just get on with it, he turned to tackle the second flight of stairs.

Eventually they reached his door. For a moment Strike remembered the moment of the lighter in his pocket and wondering where his keys were, but he also recalled that he hadn’t locked his flat this morning, having not intended to leave the building. He opened the door, and Robin raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you lock it?”

“Don’t own anything worth nicking,” he said cheerfully, and limped into his tiny living room, which was as immaculately tidy as always.

Robin looked at her watch. “I think we should get you straight to bed,” she said. “It’s late, and if we settle you out here we’ll only have to move you.”

Strike shot her a sideways look. “Who’s ‘we’? You can go now, Robin. Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

Robin took a breath. “You banged your head.”

“I was a boxer. I’ve hit it much harder.”

“But you hadn’t then taken quite strong drugs. And you were drinking earlier. I’m staying, at least for a bit.”

Unwilling to get into another argument when she looked that determined, Strike just nodded, his lips pressed together.

“Right,” Robin said briskly, pleased and somewhat surprised to have met so little resistance. “I’ll make some tea. You go and get ready for bed. Can you manage—?”

Strike did glower at this. “Yes,” he said brusquely, and Robin merely nodded and went to put the kettle on, carefully not looking in his direction as he limped into his bedroom and shut the door.

Robin watched the kettle as it started to hiss, listening to the flush of the toilet in the tiny bathroom, the heavy, limping steps, the creak of the bed as he sat. She made the tea as slowly as she could to give him plenty of time, and she thought about their evening as she did so.

Surely she couldn’t be imagining all of it. So many nearly moments tonight. In the pub corridor, outside the pub, in the hospital, in the taxi. It felt as though them drifting together was inevitable, and yet something always seemed to stop them.

_One of us needs to make a proper move, stop waiting about for it to happen, _she thought. _And maybe that someone needs to be me._

She wondered if Strike’s reticence was because of her past, and because she was still relatively recently single. Or maybe he simply felt it wasn’t appropriate for them to get involved, given that they worked together. But the way he had looked at her tonight...

She wasn’t sure she was brave enough to broach the subject, imagining him shutting down, cutting the conversation short. They’d never talked a huge amount about feelings, despite being much closer friends these days. But maybe tonight, softened by painkillers—

Or maybe not tonight, when he was already feeling vulnerable. Maybe this wasn’t a good time at all.

_Which is it? _she asked herself. _Is it the perfect moment, or really not a good time at all?_

She sighed as she squeezed the tea bags out and dropped them into the bin. Maybe she’d just have to play it by ear and see what happened.

Taking the two mugs in one hand, she stepped across to Strike’s bedroom door and knocked gently.

His answer was slow to arrive. “Come in.” He sounded half asleep.

Robin went in cautiously. Strike was sat up in bed, his trousers and prosthetic laid on the floor next to him. He had undone most of his shirt, revealing a white T-shirt beneath, but got no further.

She put the mugs of tea on his bedside table, and looked at him tenderly. He looked exhausted, in pain and half asleep. She could see his shirt issue - his upper right arm was still encased in the shirt sleeve, his lower in the cast and sling.

“Scissors,” she said firmly.

“Mm?” Sat down now, comfortable, woozy from drugs, Strike was finding it increasingly difficult to focus.

“Looks like they cut your sleeve to plaster your wrist. So the shirt is ruined anyway. Let’s just cut it off you.”

Strike nodded tiredly, and drifted as Robin left the room. He was vaguely aware of her clattering down to the office and back up again. She seemed to be gone ages and no time at all, and then she was kicking off her shoes and climbing onto the bed and gently urging him to sit forwards. Exhausted, he obeyed, and her small, strong hands gently manipulated the scissors. She pulled his collar back behind him, and cut from the top of the front of his shirt carefully down his arm until she reached the end of where the nurse had cut his sleeve off him. He felt her gentle hands at his back, sliding beneath the fabric of his sling to draw the pieces of his shirt gently away from his arm and side. Her hand at his neck lifted the sling gently so she could ease the shirt material free, and he found himself leaning his fuzzy head back against her arm.

Robin paused, letting him rest on her, kneeling with one knee behind him and one next to his left thigh. He could have sworn she dropped a gentle kiss on the top of his head, but maybe he was imagining it. His thoughts blurred and swam. He was aware of Robin gently moving back and pulling the remains of his shirt down his left arm and tossing it to the floor.

She sat back against the wall, and he slumped back too, his head sliding to rest on her shoulder.

Robin, her heart swelling with fondness for her big, burly, vulnerable partner, rested her cheek on the top of his head.

“We’ll let the tea cool, then get you settled when you’ve drunk yours.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And I’ll find that camp bed.”

“Mm-hm.”

There was a pause. _It’s now or never, _Robin told herself. _And never is getting tedious._

“Cormoran—”

“Mm.”

“Tonight—”

He stirred a little, and Robin reached across herself to lay a hand on his left arm next to her. “Just let me say my piece,” she asked softly. He stilled, and Robin sat for a long moment, gathering her thoughts. She wanted to get this right.

“Tonight... Something should have happened. Between us,” she began, haltingly. “It nearly did, several times. I’m sure you felt it too.”

She paused. Strike was quiet.

“And the thing is, Cormoran... I wanted it to. I know there are lots of reasons why it’s a bad idea,” she went on hurriedly before he could interrupt. “But there are lots of reasons it’s a good idea too. I’m over Matt, honestly and truly. I was ages ago, in fact. I’m ready. We’re both single. I feel safe with you.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m attracted to you. A lot. I tried to convince myself that it’s just that I never had a guy friend before, and never been out with anyone except Matthew, that it was just a silly crush and I’d get over it. But it isn’t, and I haven’t. I’m really, really fond of you, Cormoran.”

“And before you say anything about us working together, I know. I share your concerns. But we’re adults and we’re both committed to the business. We can draw a line and keep things separate, and stick to it. I’ll make sure I do.”

“So—” she hesitated. “I thought maybe, if you felt the same, and I think you do—” She took a deep breath. “Maybe we could give it a go.”

Tears in her eyes, she smiled down at the top of his head where it rested on her shoulder. “I haven’t been on a first date since 2001, so I have no idea how these things go now, but... Cormoran Strike, will you go out with me?”

There was a pause, which stretched. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Fluttering hope turned to panic. Had she in fact got this totally, utterly, disastrously wrong? How would they work together if—?

Strike snored.

Robin leaned her head back a little and peered around at him. His eyes were closed, his cheek squashed against her shoulder, his jaw slack.

“Oh, Cormoran—” Half laughing and half crying, frustrated, overwhelmed by fondness, Robin slid her arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. He snorted a little and resettled himself against her.

Slowly, bit by bit, she managed to encourage him to slither down onto the pillows until he was lying back half propped up. She withdrew her arm and gazed down at him in the dim light, snoring, his arm strapped to his chest and his tea going cold next to him.

“You daft bugger,” she murmured softly. “Unconsciousness isn’t going to get you out of this, you know. I’ll just say it all again in the morning.”

She reached across to turn out the light and lay down next to him.

Strike snored again, and Robin slid her hand into his, nuzzling her head next to his shoulder. Equally exhausted, she was soon asleep too.

**Author's Note:**

> And we’re finished! I contemplated writing a morning after, but I think I quite like leaving it there. We know she’s going to be brave enough to say it all again...


End file.
